


save me if i become my demons

by panffin



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:03:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panffin/pseuds/panffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky has a slow recovery, but he's getting there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	save me if i become my demons

**Author's Note:**

> This is set directly after Captain America: The Winter Soldier, using history between Bucky and Nat from the comics, although you don't really need to know it to get it. Title is from the song My Demons by Starset

There’s just two things that Bucky is sure of: his training, and that memories are both powerful yet malleable. Under the right pressure, under the right hands, under the right minds, memories are never to be trusted. Bucky stares down his own life story in the museum, daring it to rewrite itself, to tell America that their beloved hero’s sidekick wasn’t truly dead. But, no, wait, Bucky was dead. There’s no way he can ever be the person he stares at, whose stagnant gaze held trust and hope - and maybe he really did have all that once. But that time is long gone.

Bucky registers the presence at his side, but doesn’t acknowledge the man next to him. Instead, he continues taking in all the details of his own life in front of him, maybe even mentally correcting one or two that he just _knows_ they got wrong.

“They said you’d be here.” Comes the unfamiliar voice and Bucky nods in reply because of course he’s here, where else does he actually go. “You need help,” the man continues, “You need to understand that.”

And now Bucky faces the man, knowing him as the man who helped Steve Rogers and Natalia, but not knowing who he was exactly. He stares as the man nonchalantly reads Bucky’s life story (or at least the better half of it), takes note of the stiff set in posture, of how he continuously licks his lips.

“Sam Wilson,” The man introduces himself when he’s done reading, “You’d remember me from that day when you-”

“I remember.” Bucky interrupts, because he really doesn’t need an actual reminder. They stand in silence for a moment, waiting for the other to continue the conversation.

“You need help.” Sam Wilson repeats.

“I know.”

“You need to get help.”

“I’m _working_ on it.” Bucky sneers through gritted teeth because it stings to have to admit it, it’s disgusting to think that he’s so helpless, so hopeless, that that Steve Rogers sent someone to see to him. Bucky feels repulsed deep to his core. Just days ago nobody dared approach him. Now, a man just walks up to him, introduces himself and tells him what to do. Something of what he feels must show on his face because Sam Wilson furrows his eyebrows a little, nods and stares back at the memorial in front of them. There’s children chattering in the background, adults mumbling about, and the clicking of shoes throughout the floor. Still, Bucky hears the man next to him take a sharp intake of air.

“Right. Call this number if you ever feel like dropping by,” He doesn’t mention where because they both know Bucky already knows, “And if you ever need anything… Here.” He fishes his pocket and retrieves a crumpled piece of paper and pen. “Just call him.” He scribbles a number and hands it over with the business card he offered earlier. Bucky looks at both and takes the business card.

“I don’t need his help.” He says, because it’s true.

“Not help. Just support.” Comes the reply with a genuine smile. Bucky doesn’t look too pleased by it, because of course he isn’t, but takes the paper as well. It’s two weeks later he calls Steve Rogers.

 

* * *

 

There are certain times of the day that he finds that he hates the most. Mornings, for one. Sleep comes sparingly, and so he’s awake by the crack of dawn. Steve Rogers comes to visit him in one of Natalia’s safe houses every morning, asking if he had a good night’s sleep (for conversation’s sake) and Bucky will say that it was good (neither believed it) and Steve would reply that yes, of course it was, and Bucky knows that that had started as him politely letting Bucky have his way but now he can hear the sarcasm dripping in the other man’s tone. It’s a good start. It feels like they are friends.

Then Steve would suggest Bucky joined him for his morning jog, which he would refuse every day, but thanks for asking anyways, and when he’s alone again he gets another round of caffeine.

The thing with the coffee had started with Bucky realizing he doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t want to close his eyes. There are nightmares, he hears voices, a sharp chill running just below his skin, and he just really doesn’t want to sleep anymore. Most mornings he can still feel the cool of a gun in his hand, his firm grip of the blade, the tight hold of his mask, and it leaves him disorientated. The other mornings are when he wakes up screaming, breathing heavy and his whole body trembling. He can never remember those dreams, but that’s probably for the best.

He takes a lot of coffee, because staying awake helps him feel more in control of himself. There is the urge to have to plan out each step of the day, each action deliberate, because that gives him the power to decide. And that’s really what he needs - knowing that he is entitled to constructing his own life now.

He thinks he’s getting better.

 

* * *

 

In front of him stands the Black Widow. He’s sitting stiffly on the couch, back hunched over and resting his elbows on his knees and face in palms. He leans forward and catches her right hand in his left. And just like a gun, a grenade, a knife, it (her) (she) feels just _right_ there - like returning home after a long day, the fourth cup of coffee on an early morning, like managing to get another just because it’s raining and _c’mon it takes a lot more than caffeine to kill me_. The metal that holds her hand can’t sense heat, can’t detect her soft touch, but it can feel the light pressure of it’s weight, and that’s enough.

James (and he’s always James to her as she is Natalia to him) feels like he can breathe now, finally, after years of choking, drowning, thinking he was gliding, how funny, when he realizes he was merely _existing_ really, just a loyal pet. James feels like he can breathe now, finally, with a hand carefully coiling around his, grounding him before he lost himself to memories and deeds long done (were they his doing? were they innocent? were they real?) and he releases a breathe he didn’t realize he was holding. He feels lighter, if ever so slightly. It’s more than he ever remembers feeling. James looks at Natalia’s hand in his, raises the other and runs his thumb across the back of her hand, as if calming a child. As if he was the one who didn’t need the other’s company.

It’s been weeks since he recalls waking up, as if he was truly waking, as if he was having a momentary dreamlike-haze rather than an actual memory loss. Like there was a haze covering his thoughts, like following orders and calculating the safest exits and knowing the most effective ways to kill was the normal thing for people still trying to wake up. It’s been weeks and it’s as if he can feel himself looking around the world differently, and he knows it’s good, but sometimes he believes he’s still dreaming. Getting wiped made him feel both awake and asleep, he had his reason to move and walk and shoot and kill. He had known what to do and exactly how to do it. Getting wiped  always felt like waking up, he knows, but he doesn’t know how he knows. He’d gone through it over and over and over and over and, of course, _obviously, you idiot, what is wrong with you, can’t you think anymore,_ oh _, wait, have you ever even_ thought _before, how -_

And there is pressure on his cheek, he flinches, he’s ready to-

And then Natalia whispers his name, so calmly, but he felt the fingers cupping his face twitch and reminded himself that this was, in fact, the Black Widow in front of him. If there was any need to subdue him, she would have acted on it long before. James consciously controls his breathing, his mind, his hand that had started to clench onto hers.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers mechanically, staring at his hands encasing hers and then his ribs were contracting, like he was being crushed, claws ripping him inside. He can’t divert his eyes from their entwined hands, something thugs in him, he takes a deep gulp of air, and he only registers that her other hand had been soothing his cheek once it leaves. The cold air left behind is not as comforting as he would have once thought.

There’s a peck of warmth on the top of his head, and James only looks up to lock eyes with Natalia once she’s back to looming over him. He thinks that they used to do this a lot, just being in each other’s company. It’s quiet yet so very loud, the strength of her presence is so familiar to him, so natural, it didn’t make sense whenever she wasn’t with him. Because he knows her. She was his anchor back in the days when she was around. And now she’s back. Natalia’s hesitant smile washes away his fears for now, and he realizes he’s smiling back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was planning for this to be a series following Bucky slowly getting better, assimilating into modern society and probably joining the Avengers at some point, but who knows if I'll ever have the motivation to get to it  
> you can find me on [tumblr](http://panffin.tumblr.com)


End file.
